“We do this,” I told him, “to give the bigger ones
More space to grow even stronger.”
“They are the warrior carrots of space,” he said.
We pulled the smaller ones straight upwards,
Feeling their desperate resistance.
There they were, thin as Tane’s little finger.
A foot long, some of them, they glowed gold
In the slow burning air. “We’ve found it,”
He said. “Tutankhamen’s treasure.”
Had we outwitted the natural cycles
Of give and take, build and break,
And out of chaos pulled perfection?
“Are these what they call baby carrots?”
I nodded. “Just right for your school lunch.”
I don’t eat babies. So there. ”
He turned the longest one upside down.
A rocket, with green frond flames flowing behind.
“This one is going to the Moon.”